Daily Writing Challenge 2026

M6: Meeting and Calling Chapter (975 words)

And offering her services without any expectation of monetary compensation, was to her credit. But there were definitely two sides to this woman.

The rectory already had a secretary, a genuinely nice woman in her late fifties named Beatrice Cooke. She ran the rectory office like a general in an efficient army, and she wouldn’t look kindly on a sudden invasion. But I could always use an assistant. Being the most popular priest did have its rewards, but that meant many obligations. Oh no, was that Pride rearing its ugly face? I could feel Father Pete on my shoulder, wagging his finger at me, disappointed. What was happening to me? Suddenly I was becoming someone I no longer recognized. Quickly, weighing the options, I thought for a moment and came to a decision.

“Felicia, give me a few days. I think I may have a place for you. I teach at the parish school here, and while we have a very competent secretary at the rectory, she says she can’t read my handwriting. Most of my class prep I manage on my own. I need someone who can type out my class notes for me; it takes quite a lot of time for my hunt and pecking style of typing to get it done. Would that interest you? “

She tilted her head a little to the side, taking my suggestion and turning it over in her mind. Smiling, she stood, signaling the discussion was at an end. The smile was even more intoxicating than the voice. It was the first time she looked happy since she walked in the office, and I thought, I could get to like seeing that.

What an unusual encounter! On its face there was nothing bizarre about it. Anyone viewing the scene would describe it like this–a parishioner came into the office with a problem and left feeling better and with a plan. It happened every day, with different people, so why was this such an exceptional experience? I didn’t understand. My legs suddenly were as weak as wet noodles, and I sat down heavily in the chair Felicia had occupied. An inspired thought–a cigarette, I needed a cigarette badly! Easy now, I said to myself. No backsliding. I took large, gulping deep breaths. After several minutes, my legs were feeling steadier. Rising, I found I could stand and walk unassisted. I put the page with Felicia’s number on it on the desk blotter. I crossed the room, opened the door, and walked into the reception area. The aroma of vanilla wasn’t as pungent in the adjacent room, and my brain didn’t seem so foggy.

I went through the room to the stairs and went upstairs to the residence quarters. My rooms were my sanctuary–that is, beside the church. There was a sitting room; its focal point was an old-fashioned wing back chair, purposefully placed in front of a bookcase filled with works by some of my favorite authors: Dickens, Faulkner, Cummings, and Byron. Among these were also the expected volumes on religious theory. A simple round wall clock ticked away the hours. There was a doorway, which opened into a slightly smaller bedroom. It was simply furnished: a twin bed with a wooden headboard was along one wall, directly above on the same wall was a large wooden crucifix given to me by my parents. On the opposite side of the room was a full-length mirror, a bureau next to it. Photos graced the top of the dresser, pictures of my parents, Paul and Danielle Logan, my older brother Paulie, with his wife and kids. The perfect family, one boy and one girl.

I removed my clothes–collar, black shirt, slacks, socks and stood in the middle of the room. The only true reminder of my dream long past sat in a corner. My sax. I walked over to it, picked it up and raised the mouthpiece to my lips. Inhaling, then exhaling in measured breaths, I began to play a slow, haunting piece of my own creation entitled, “The Calling.”

While the melody reverberated in the room, the very act of playing it dropped years from time. When I was in school, I used to come home and eat lunch with my mother at the kitchen table. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, she gave me toasted tuna fish sandwiches, an apple, and a tall glass of milk. I would tell her my hopes and dreams, and she would suggest ways of reaching them. We referred to them as our “wish conversations.”

What was most important to me, of course, was trying to be as good as my saintly, older brother Paulie. All the eldest sons in my father's family entered the priesthood. It was some strange family tradition. And it was never questioned or disputed. So that made Paulie the designated priest in my family. My father, who was a younger son himself, was a schoolteacher. He seemed more interested in getting the most recent catalogs of seminary schools for Paulie to examine. He rarely had time for me. Since I was the younger son, I was encouraged in my less lofty endeavors--sports and music. Therefore, this time with my mother was very precious to me.

As I got older, these “wish conversations” with my mother became fewer, but nonetheless important. A critical one occurred one morning a month before my high school graduation. My mother was standing at the sink, washing dishes and I rushed into the room, panting, breathless. She turned around quickly, her eyes questioning. I said, “Mom, guess.” Not giving her an opportunity to speak, I hurried on. “I was playing my sax and suddenly a vision appeared before me, beckoning to me. I’ve decided–I’m going to become a priest.”

She wiped her hands on her flowered print apron.